A Monster
by Lynedius
Summary: An anger that couldn't be controlled or subdued; anger that came to life as he tore apart beasts and wildlings alike, their screams but a mere whisper on their ripped throats; anger that fuelled against everyone who had wronged him or his family. The rage which had clawed inside him for years had now turned into something else that was burning him up alive from within. Oneshot


So I decided to a 30 day challenge of asoiaf in time for the third season GoT (I'm so excited I can't anymore). So here's Day 1

Disclaimer: Is this really necessary? I shall never come close to writing a book like asoiaf by George R.R Martin

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**A Monster**

Silence had descended upon the empty Godswood, slowly pooling in crevices where laughter had once used to ring forth from – soft whispers of memories that seemed to belong to another lifetime. The silence that had been reverent and oddly comforting before now seemed to do nothing more but echo the haunting melodies of the people who had been brutally massacred, fighting in a war for a King who had left them to dine with the Dead. It hung onto the barren branches of the seemingly dead trees, which stood still in time with their branches raised heavenwards, yearning to reach out to the clear blue expanse. It crept onto the stone walls, into the cracks that had formed when Winterfell had been torn apart and broken down, stained with the screams of tortured men.

It stood still, as a shift in the wind brought forth a brief reprise of snow, asserting winter's presence once more – a presence that appeared to last as long as the war; the war for the Iron Throne, the war for the North, the war against the Others and the war for him. It brushed past his cheek as soft as a lover's whisper – _a war that had no end nearing._

He brushed the snow from his hair as the leaves of the weirwood rustled relentlessly, trying desperately to hold the Northern wind in its embrace. He could _feel _the Old Gods watching him through the eyes of the carved weirwood, the crimson sap that bled through the crudely carved holes and painted the white bark a dark, rich scarlet; and suddenly he could feel the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. He licked his chapped lips, his nostrils flaring and for a moment he could feel the fire raging through his veins once again, the smell of the hunt filling him – completing him.

He absentmindedly fingered the pendant that Osha had carved for him in Skagos, and closed his eyes briefly trying to remember her voice and the soft warmth that her arms had always offered him at the end of the day. If he tried hard enough, he could smell the raw bloody meat and taste the storm that perpetually raged against the island. He could nearly feel the wild wind that had rippled through his coarse auburn hair as he used to run with Shaggy by his side. He had grown to love the wilderness that was the island and all its fierce inhabitants. He had learnt to look forward to the rush of a hunt, the adrenaline that had coursed through his blood as he and Shaggy became one.

The remote landscape had seemed to echo his own rage and anger. An anger that couldn't be controlled or subdued; anger that came to life as he tore apart beasts and wildlings alike, their screams but a mere whisper on their ripped throats; anger that fuelled against everyone who had wronged him or his family.

_Rickon_, the wind seemed to whisper and for a brief sense of time he felt comfort – as though he did really belong behind the stone walls, that he did belong in Winterfell once again.  
_Rickon_, it resounded inside his head, its voice eerily similar to Bran's and he snapped his eyes wide open; that sense of belonging was gone as swiftly as it had come, what filled him instead was that same sense of nagging doubt and grief – emotions that he had barely known at Skagos.  
Suddenly weary, he sat beneath the weirwood's red expanse and leaned against the solid trunk.

_Black Wolf_ they had whispered when he had first returned to Westroes, his auburn hair long and wild with Shaggy at his side. He had expected to come back home when he reached Winterfell, but Winterfell had already died long before his hair had reached his shoulders. Instead he was met with silence, the cold, and Sansa at their father's seat.

_Black Wolf_ they had whispered as the warg tales and stories of the hunt had started to spread slowly but surely, creeping through the shadows in the night. He had asked Sansa where Lady was the that night and she gazed back at him with their mother's blue eyes, knowing that he knew.

_Black Wolf_ they had whispered as he set Shaggy on one of the men who had mocked Sansa at a feast. Edd had been his name. His screams had resounded beyond the wall as Shaggy had ripped his throat out. That night Arya came back to them. As she pulled him into a rough hug, he had closed his eyes, the smell of her a distant memory that flitted from him as wisps on a cloudy day.

_Old Gods have mercy on us_, they whispered as he had laughed at the sight of the fresh blood seeping through the wounds, gurgling softly as Edd's screams had died out; his grin turning feral as he licked the drops of scarlet that landed on his face. He heard the whispers that evening, and learnt of the Red Wedding, where his brother's banner men had been butchered mercilessly, painting the hallways a horrific crimson.

_They had stopped whispering now._

Sansa had been horrified when she learnt of what had happened, and had tracked him down in the ancient crypts that lay beneath the castle.

xoxoxoxo

'I heard you set Shaggydog at one of the men last evening' she started softly, trying to approach him cautiously  
He merely shrugged and sat down next to their nuncle, Brandon's tomb. He looked up at Sansa as she came closer and for a brief heartbeat he could only see his mother's red hair and blue eyes in the dim light. His breath choked slightly in his throat and he shifted his gaze to his feet.

'Is it true that you killed Edd?' she asked again  
His head snapped up at the name and he growled lowly. He could see Sansa flinch slightly and met her eyes.  
'He should have known better to renounce his loyalties and his duties'  
'Rickon, you shouldn't have'

She sat down gently next to him, and he caught a whiff of the scent that their mother had used to wear.  
'Stop it' he said abruptly and turned away, wanting anything but to have the smell of his childhood fill his nostrils again  
'Stop what?'  
'Stop trying to be like mother' he said hoarsely, refusing to look at her; everything she did reminded him of mother – her soft voice, steel within and yet still gentle, the calm façade she wore for the people, her hair, her eyes, and now even the way she smelt.  
'Oh Rickon' she said, her voice breaking and moved to put her arms around him. And for that moment he let had let himself be held, trying to forget the outside world and concentrate on her warm arms.

'But,' she said hesitatingly after a moment, 'you can't go killing every person who speaks ill of me, Rickon'  
'But that's exactly how they were killed' he growled, the deep anger within him starting to burn through the layers of numbness, 'that's how none of them came back home, betrayed by their own'  
'I still need these men to hold the North, primarily against the Boltons, and it doesn't help us if their numbers reduce'  
'I could kill them all with my bare hands, with Shaggy' he snarled

Sansa was silent and then whispered so softly that he barely heard the words,

'I know, and that is what I'm sacred of'

xoxoxoxo

He shifted slightly and felt the rough bark of the weirwood press into his back. The same coarse bark that had known the feel of many Starks before him, the feel of his dead father's back. He got up and brushed off the snow, a sense of hollowness forming within him. How was he supposed to mourn for his dead family when he could barely remember their faces?

Every fiber of his being still craved to hunt and kill the Freys and the turncloaks, until every single one of those worthless scum screamed as he swung his sword, their eyes running with blood. When he had first left Skagos it burned inside him, fierce enough to consume him. He had expected to be let out to bring back their heads, however this war wasn't what he had envisioned. It wasn't a war of arms and force, no, it was a war of treaties and words and he had no place in it. It was Sansa's place, not his.

He had expected to feel at home here in Winterfell. As Osha had never let him forget who he truly was, he was a Stark Of Winterfell. Beneath the stone wall and roofs were where he had been born, where he had been handed his first lessons by Maester Luwin, where he had sat with his family for dinner, a place that held the memories of whom he ought to be. A faint whisper of a lullaby echoed within him as a dull aching slowly erupted within.

He walked out of the Godswood, the snow crunching lightly beneath his boots, leaving footprints in the white expanse. He saw people deftly make way for him, reluctant to meet his eyes, their fear palpable as he sensed Shaggy's approach. He ran a hand over the direwolf's gleaming black coat, distractedly, warm and dusted lightly with white.

This fear, he could understand and appreciate. Fear was what kept them at bay, what made them remain loyal, what gave him strength that they would yet survive this and be together finally.

An image flashed by his mind and all of a sudden he recalled the small flicker of fright and caution in Sansa's eyes whenever she tried to approach him, and something inside him broke a little. She didn't understand, he thought fiercely. She didn't understand why he needed to fight, why he needed to kill, why he needed to see the waters and grass stain with their blood.

But Arya might.

_Shaggy to me.  
_

With the direwolf by his side, he made his way towards the North Gate.

xoxoxoxo

'But Sansa is Queen of the North'

Rickon halted in his tracks.

'A man never bows to a woman'

Shaggy growled and Rickon could feel it rumbling within him too. He took a few steps more and a clearing came into sight where two children – presumably siblings, were arguing.

'The Dragon is a woman' said the girl, her pudgy nose scrunched up in distaste  
'A man never bows to a woman who is nothing, and a Northern man never bows to a pretender woman who is wed to the Lannisters'

Rage that had always been easily aroused within him in Skagos, but which had quenched when he had reached Winterfell, now started to fire through his veins once again. He felt his adrenalin pick up and the dull pounding of his blood resonated in his ears.  
Beneath his feet he could hear the dry leaves crackle, as Shaggy padded next to soundlessly. The girl turned to look at him, her mouth open in furious retaliation, only to snap it shut when she saw him.

'Sansa can't fight, she can't hold a sword, all she's done is spread her legs for two men who were both enemies of the North'  
'Makes you an enemy of the North too for turning traitor to your rightful lord' he whispered hoarsely, the undying rage and will to kill itching underneath his skin.  
'She's no rightful lord, she's not even a lady' the boy retorted looking at him, 'I've heard of you' he said after a gap.  
'You have' Rickon replied back steadily  
'They say you're a warg and that you lived with the Skaggs,' the boy paused momentarily and Rickon could see the flash of defiance in his grey eyes, grey like the Starks, 'a warg like those monsters north of the wall' he spat

Shaggy snarled and leapt at him, his jaws reaching for the throat. The boy let out a guttural scream and fell onto the hard ground trying to fend off Shaggy. The direwolf pinned him down, its sharp fangs driving into the soft skin of the boy, Rickon closed his eyes and felt the sweet, salty taste of blood fill his mouth. He removed his jaw from the boy's throat and looked up to meet his terrified wet eyes. He licked his lips, relishing the taste of a potential kill once more. He could feel the boy trying to squirm under him and he growled, his teeth bared into a snarl.

'Please no, don't' the boy whimpered pathetically and Rickon felt the rush of the hunt fill him.  
He opened his eyes to the sister tugging at his side, her voice in hysterics  
'Please m'lord, he didn't know any better. Please don't hurt him'  
Rickon shrug her grasping hand and closed his eyes once again as Shaggy tore away at the boy's arm.

'…..Robb doesn't understand yet, m'lord please don't'  
His brother's name jolted him back into his body and he stared at the girl.  
'What did you say his name was?'  
'It's Robb, m'lord. Named after the King in the North, Lady Sansa's brother m'lord. Please, he's my younger brother m'lord, don't kill him'

There was a rustle behind him and he turned, his hand on the hilt of his sword, caught unaware by the boy's name.

It was Arya.

Her grey eyes took in the scene before her as Nymeria bounded from behind her and tackled Shaggy to the ground, freeing the boy underneath. Rickon rubbed the corner of his mouth where he was almost sure that there would have been blood as Arya looked into his eyes and he knew then that she had realized that he had been in Shaggy's body during the attack. He looked back at Arya but only saw horror in her eyes, where once he thought he'd sought solace and acceptance;

'Who are you?' she whispered slowly

There was a heartbeat of silence where it felt as though time had frozen still by the harsh winter winds and that the snow had stopped mid-flight. The rage which had clawed inside him for years had now turned into something else that was burning him up alive from within.

_'A monster'_ he whispered back, his voice breaking slightly and refusing to no longer meet her eyes.

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Erm. I'm not really sure I should continue writing? And for thirty days, oh the horrors. So, I'd love you forever if you left a review :)


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